


Taking root

by vanishing_apples



Category: Granblue Fantasy (Video Game)
Genre: (i think), Cameos, Established Relationship, F/M, I’m bad at being unambiguous, Post both of their lvl 100 episodes, Romance, marriage proposals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-03
Updated: 2019-07-03
Packaged: 2020-06-03 10:03:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19461703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vanishing_apples/pseuds/vanishing_apples
Summary: Lennah and Gawain grapple with new lives free from their respective curses, and whatever comes after.





	1. Chapter 1

“M-marriage? I’ve never spared the concept any thought, to be truthful…” - Jeanne slides her fingertip along the rim of her teacup, pensive. - “It’s just… my mind is so often preoccupied with other, more immediately pressing matters.”

“But what can be more pressing than finding your destined match!?” - Leaning across the table towards Jeanne, Anthuria nearly knocks over her own cup. But the younger girl’s uneasy chuckle prompts her to slump backward with a defeated sigh. - “Well, I guess Jeanne is still a bit young. You’ll totally get it when it hits you, though! I can guarantee… from personal experience.”

Amused by Anthuria’s passionate display, Ilsa causes some delicate flowered vines hanging over them to sway with her laughter. Filtered by the drooping vegetation, uneven strips of afternoon sun draping over the floral tablecloth mirror their movement. 

“I’m sure it’s wonderful, Anthuria. But I must sympathise with Jeanne. It’s not easy to allow yourself romantic pursuit with a job that demands the majority of your waking hours.” - Ilsa pauses, her lips sagging into a small frown. - “...In Jeanne’s case, those prophetic dreams-”

“Revelations.” - Jeanne subtly interjects.

“Yes yes, revelations… mean that her mission takes up sleeping hours as well. I can only imagine how tough it is.” - Ilsa sighs, her cheek rested on one hand while the other drags languid whirlpools into her cooling tea. 

“But Ilsa! Didn’t you want to get married yourself?” - Anthuria protests.

“Why, yes. But as I said…”

“Then you will, someday. I’m certain.” - Unexpectedly, Jeanne joins Anthuria in putting Ilsa on the spot. - “With conviction, any future is possible.”

Before an increasingly uncomfortable Ilsa can dodge the scrutiny of her younger friends, a third voice chimes in.

“Oh my, I agree! Ilsa would make the loveliest bride.”

“Right!? I knew Lennah would get it!” 

Parting the curtain of budding vines at her own room’s entrance, Lennah enters beaming with a fresh pot of tea. She is greeted with Jeanne’s nod and Anthuria’s eager, somewhat conspiratorial grin. 

“You too?” - Ilsa groans as she scoots over to make way for Lennah’s return to her seat.

“Yes! I think there is room for happiness in anyone’s life, including yours.” - Lennah’s smile only widens as she refills her guests’ cups. - “And I do believe you would make a stunning bride, Ilsa.”

“You are so right!” - Anthuria cheers.

“Same goes for you, Anthuria. I can already picture your wedding bouquet.”

“R...really?” - The dancer blinks, incredulous. 

“Of course! You would look lovely complemented by the boldest fiery carnations.”

Thus, the conversation diverts towards the topic of wedding arrangements. The maneuver is so smoothly executed, Ilsa only recognises and feels grateful for it when Anthuria and Lennah are about a dozen options into their discussion of flower choices. At some point, even the stern Jeanne is roped in by their gusto.

“I think pure white, elegant lilies would suit Jeanne best, don’t you?” 

“Oh, lilies would be lovely! So would peonies, I think. The jagged petals look like frills and soft, pastel tones are wonderfully feminine.”

“Yes… femininity is quite wonderful.” - Jeanne meekly agrees with Lennah.

The mage’s cheek finds her palm, her lips parted in a dreamy sigh.

“Ah, what I wouldn’t give to be in charge of flowers and decorations for your weddings. I’m excited just thinking about it!”

Anthuria brings their discussion to its natural conclusion.

“What about you, Lennah? Any plans for your own?”


	2. Chapter 2

“...So?” - Gawain taps the side of the bookshelf with armoured fingertips. - “What’s with the sudden pause? How did you answer?”

Lennah shrugs, her eyes still squinting as they scan the books’ spines for a specific volume of herbology.

“Well… Nothing, really.” 

“Nothing?” - The knight raises a sceptical eyebrow.

“Yup! I was… taken aback? And thought that the question was remarkable, is all.”

“Hmph! What’s so remarkable about that? Don’t women make common small talk of such topics? Supposedly you even came up with a dozen ideas for wedding flowers in the span of a few breaths.”

“I guess. But I’ve never thought of matrimony as… you know, a natural direction of _my_ life?”

A droplet of calm falls between them. Then Gawain speaks up. For a rare instance, his words are void of the usual impatient tone that implicitly urges his conversation partners to hurry with their response.

“How come?”

Taken with her search for the missing book, Lennah remains oblivious. 

“I don’t know, really. Maybe my adolescent years were so occupied by fear and resentment that there was no room for cultivating such blissful fantasies.” - She briefly turns to Gawain with a playful expression of faux austerity. - “See, mister Gawain? That is why negativity is a frightfully, _frightfully_ unhelpful thing.” 

The knight sullenly clicks his tongue. Their time together have got him quite used to Lennah’s scoldings, be they earnest or in good humour (does the difference matter if she delivers them all in the same air-headed manner?), but Gawain still hasn’t quite figured out how to aptly respond. He can’t act as carefree as she does, still struggles to crack the smallest genuine smile let alone build rapport or counter her teasing. Good thing he doesn’t have to. She never expects him to.

“Tch. But aren’t you at peace now, with that curse gone and all?”

“I am! But I still haven’t exactly thought of that kind of commitment. I wholeheartedly support our fellow crew members if they wish to embark on that journey, though. As for me, I think I’m already happy as can be!”

“That’s rich.”

“Huh?”

“You claim to advocate others’ commitment, but dismiss the choice for yourself without even sparing it consideration first. Sounds more like you’re deliberately chickening out.”

“I am…?”

“Sure as hell you are!”

In a sudden surge of passion, Gawain’s elevated volume makes Lennah’s shoulders jump. Realising his inadvertent sin in fracturing the calm of her personal sanctuary, the knight hurriedly mumbles a clammy string of apologies. Gawain curses himself all the while avoiding Lennah’s eyes, knowing full well how they must shimmer with amusement at his expense. 

Actually… he might not mind looking. But his cheeks are warming at an alarming rate and his mask is woefully absent to put a lid over his shame.

“L-look, I don’t mean to force my view or judgment on you or anything, but from where I see it, this just reeks of attachment issues!” - Gawain hastily continues before the first melodious chuckle can spill from Lennah’s lips.

The statement is enough to make her pause, to his great fortune. 

“You can stay a fly on the wall over other people’s lives forever, for all I care. Be that wind-surfing, cowardly dandelion seed that never plants its roots or whatever. Your choice. I just think it’s a waste of a perfectly good, curse-free life.” 

Without finding her unusual silence the slightest bit alarming, Gawain pushes on, an inexplicable frustration beginning to stain his voice.

“I shouldn’t have to keep reminding you that we… I mean… you are curse-free now. Death is no longer constantly looming, threatening to pluck you out of the lives of those who dare to cherish you at any moment. You don’t have that excuse to not chip in your share of effort for perfectly normal human connections anymore.”

Lennah has long abandoned her quest of searching for the book, lips thinning and her focal point thrown somewhere far behind the bookshelf. Only now does Gawain notice one of her hands bunching up a flap of lace over her skirt. The possibility of his words having injured beginning to grate at his conscience, he panics.

“Of… course it goes without saying that death still constantly looms over us all as life’s inseparable shadow! Hah! Tis but a universal law. What I mean is that you are in much less danger now. _Any_ threat that comes your way, I will gladly obliterate, so…”

“I-I see. Thank you…” - Lennah sounds audibly flustered for perhaps the third time in her life. 

Gawain can practically hear whatever sound point he was trying to make disintegrate under the heat of his own blush. Despite every inclination felt deep within his bones to stop, his mouth resumes contributing to the already excessive amount of babbling he’s done for the day.

“So try to at least entertain the idea of commitment, damn it! You’ve only got the one life to do so!”

Before the seemingly awestruck Lennah - with her widened eyes and lower lip hung agape - could regain the sense to craft a response, Gawain plots his escape. He’s made a fool of himself and the memory of this single visit is plenty enough to mortify him for many nights to come. 

“Have to go now. Thanks for the tea.” 

“Ah… You’re welcome! Wait, Gawain didn’t you-”

And his back is already withdrawn from her sight. Lennah’s outstretched hand droops limply.

“...have something to give me?” - She mumbles to an empty door frame, complicated emotions swirling in her breast. 

Little does she know, Gawain - with gritted teeth and his back against the room’s outer wall - perceives her reminder perfectly. His fingers curl painfully tight around the little jewelry box in his pocket, letting its sharp corners dig into his flesh as if to punish himself for his own cowardice.


	3. Chapter 3

Lennah isn’t the only one to struggle with the notion of a curse-free life. In his own different, arguably more foolish but equally lacking in self-awareness way, Gawain is just as guilty. Worse yet, he has only grown more complacent and negligent towards his own safety with her increased presence by his side. 

Phenomenal at healing she may be, Lennah is just about as terrible with her attempts at admonishing him for his recklessness. His body doesn’t enjoy the blessing of an armour stuck to it like exoskeleton anymore, she says. He can’t keep using his own skin as such, she says. Even the mightiest beetle, equipped with actual exoskeleton, gets crushed to a pulp under the hooves of mightier beasts, she adds in instinctive, light-hearted jest. And she might not be around to put the pulpy bits back into their initial beetle shape one of these days, Lennah ends with a sombre remark which flits into one of Gawain’s ears and out his other. 

He never notices how those last few words make her tongue leaden, momentarily rob her of breath and sap a little life from her perpetual smile. He didn’t flee from Florence’s constant nagging only for Lennah to pick up her mantle, he mumbles back rebelliously. If he returns to her with severe enough wounds, Gawain glumly reassures her that he would be more careful next time, letting guilt saturate his tone a bit more than usual in place of an actual apology. 

Not wanting to wound his pride on top of his physical injuries, Lennah takes his words as they are, appreciating their intent all the same. But forgiving as she tries to be, the mage isn’t above employing a few of her spirit blossoms to bind Gawain to his bed in the most graceful display of spite. The floral retribution gets him to think twice in battle for a full week (though the annoyance isn’t all that unbearable, not when she so often sticks around to fuss over him and eventually nods off at his bedside, he muses). Then Gawain is right back to his meat-shielding, threat-scoffing ways. 

Korwa recommends sulking, a supposedly underappreciated art at which Lennah soon discovers herself a natural disaster. Her single best effort at staying angry lasted for a valiant half hour. Korwa jokingly scoffs at how disgustingly easy she is to placate, so effortlessly tempted by cheap tokens of remorse from a man tactless and stubborn as Gawain. Lennah only laughs, her glee infectious as it is effective at making her near impossible to fault, not even when she further irritates Korwa by pointing out how the tenderness in the Erune’s voice betrays her otherwise harsh words. Besides, Gawain’s sorry attempts at cooking and clumsy cleaning sessions (which wreak more inadvertent havoc in her room than they tidy, honestly speaking) may leave much to be desired, but she would never call them “cheap”. 

At the unadulterated twinkle of bliss in Lennah’s eyes as she jumps to Gawain’s undeserved defense, Korwa finally backs down. Not without a defeated yet wholly amused, huffed out chortle, though. Lennah is hopeless, they both are. What a match made in heaven. In all seriousness, Lennah would make an ideal mother rather than a lover, Korwa says. But that might just be perfect for Gawain. He can stay the way he is, let Lennah pamper him until he gets usurped by his own children. 

They burst into concurrent laughter at this. Flicking tears from the corners of her eyes, Lennah absentmindedly envisions Gawain and herself in a small sunlit countryside home, surrounded by many yet unnamed, faceless children. Some fruit trees in the front yard whose branches are often occupied by the more rambunctious little ones. A meticulously nurtured flower garden in the back speckled by plots of homegrown herbs. Some creeping melon vines, climbing tomato vines. Perhaps even a greenhouse… 

Lennah’s heart feels fuller and fuller with warmth as her reverie grows richer, takes on more colour, the spaces within it beginning to house family activities. Maybe Gawain is right. Maybe taking roots isn’t such a terrible idea. The fantasy firmly planted in her mind, it begins to grow as an eager sapling would, its branches gradually more verdant with the leaves of detail. Now, if only she would water it with the necessary courage to bear fruit in reality.


	4. Chapter 4

Densely surrounded on all sides, there are no back or frontlines to speak of in their party’s predicament. Djeeta makes the first move, concentrating firepower on one section of the circle of beasts to minimise the possibility of assault from unexpected direction. The fight having been arduous and members of their former frontline gravely injured, Gawain moves forward to contribute his strength while Lennah is right behind them for support. 

The tactic proves ineffective. While Djeeta’s attack indeed coaxes the majority of the monsters to pool their strength to her side, it fails to arrest their attention completely. A flash of steel blue claw shreds the air in a whirr, aiming for Lennah’s back. Gawain cuts short its trajectory with his own body. 

He sees metal fly - a large shard of his detached breastplate immediately followed by a dark spray staining the air. Lennah’s warped cry pulls at his nerves before the pain does, before his punctured flesh screams around the wedge of claw digging between his ribs. Then air above him explodes in a flurry of noxious crimson petals. The beast falls back briefly, giving Lennah the chance to drape herself over Gawain’s mauled torso. 

Rage refills him with heat that is draining fast from his limbs. But anger alone doesn’t help him protect Lennah, doesn’t pump his lungs with enough air to yell at her to _back off_. Go to safety. Pour what’s left of her healing magic into someone else still capable of moving or have a fighting chance. Anything but be so stupid as to die here with him. To his utter despair, she doesn’t budge. Her head stays buried in his neck, bloodied fingers fumbling with his wound as magic trickle into it in pitiful drops.

The beast is back on its feet with uninjured company. Gawain’s vision vignettes with red. Lennah’s beloved, trembling shoulders are about the only thing he can still perceive in sharp detail. He laments not being able to see her face for one last time. But perhaps her crying wouldn’t be what he wants seared into his final memory.


	5. Chapter 5

The pain stubbornly remains with near full intensity, like still glowing metal soldered into his bones. When Gawain finally awakens, it takes him a good couple of delirious minutes to grapple with the reality that he is in fact alive, not trapped in some purgatory to be tortured by the same injury that has sent him there. If there is a heaven, he doesn’t think himself worthy of a nonstop pass to it. 

His back flat against an elevated pillow in a half-sitting position, bandaged skin beaded with cold sweat, Gawain registers none of what a tearfully hysterical Sara is spewing as the tatters of his barely regained consciousness struggles to cope with pain. He nods at wherever his intuition feels to be a pause in her words, hoping, _praying_ that the next one grants her enough reassurance to calm down and perhaps go away, spare him a quiet moment to mentally recuperate. 

Sara, if his memory still serves, is a painfully reserved, soft-spoken girl of remarkable fortitude. He must have been out for a significant amount of time, then, for someone like her to be this shaken up. Gawain catches “two months” somewhere in the sea of white noise, “comatose” in an indecipherable ripple of raised frequency. That explains it.

Wait… two months? He’s been an immobile sack of meat for two months?

“Where’s… Lennah?” - His voice comes out hoarse, scraping at his airways in its urgency. 

Sara promptly cuts short her tangent. Her glassy blue eyes seem to pull more light into their depths. Gawain still can’t process all auditory input yet, but Sara sounds calm enough, her syllables more reasonably spaced. He hears her repeat Lennah’s name and heads for the door presumably to go fetch the mage who is alive and well. His pain dulls from the mere promise of being able to see her again. 

With Sara gone and the smog in his mind clearing up, Gawain begins to realise why the space around him felt so purgatory-esque when he woke up. This unmistakable room layout is definitely Lennah’s, but there is an eerie, unfamiliar barrenness to it. Lennah’s room is supposed to be obnoxiously crowded with flowers at all times - both natural and those of her own magical making. Gawain finds himself surrounded by such mundane furniture that he doubts his own conclusion at first, until his eyes fall on the windowsills directly opposite of him. 

They are lined by potted plants - natural ones. Succulents and leafy herbs that Gawain immediately recognises. They were semi ironic gifts that he gave her during the early stages of their acquaintanceship. Finding himself to be a natural at carnival games, a juvenile stroke of genius motivated Gawain to win as many plant prizes as he could playing them. He gave some to Lyria, then specifically picked out the non-flowering ones to hand the flower-loving Lennah as a somewhat mean-spirited joke. 

To his great dismay, she was fully aware of their nature even before welcoming them into her arms. Worse yet, she then dared to shower (or suffocate) him with words of praise and gratitude. Lennah even had the gall to compare the herbs and succulents to Gawain himself: prickly and unassuming, but chock full of goodly merits. He might not have known, but even succulents eventually sport the most exquisite blossoms, she said. He indeed, did not know. Lennah’s well-meaning bit of trivia ended up sounding like provocation to Gawain. The knight thus began using that as an excuse to clutter up her living space with even more non-flowering plants ever since. 

It was completely fueled by spite, he told himself. Eventually paying from his own pocket for plants to give her had nothing to do with that idiotic, excessively bright smile she wore every damn time he did, he told Cain. The Idelvan general cracked up the first few times he heard the flimsy justification, but after enough threats from Gawain and knocks to the head, Cain stopped, be it out of sympathy or concern for his poor skull. The bastard never grew out of the irritatingly smug grin, though.

“You’re awake! How are you feeling?”

Lennah’s endeared sing-song voice brings Gawain out of his rumination. He blinks, realising that his eyes were opened so long the pools of dying daylight on the succulents’ fleshy limbs have left bruised afterimages on his retinas. He curses their obstruction in admiring her visage. 

She looks pale, noticeably so even under the poor lighting and his questionable eyesight. Lennah lingers for a second too long at own room’s threshold, then advances inward following a near perfectly circular trajectory with Gawain at its center. It is as if she dreads approaching him. 

“A lot better. Thanks to you, no doubt.” - Gawain does his best to sound grateful.

Lennah smiles. An eerie, wooden one which ends at stiffened cheeks. Nothing like her usual beaming smile that is never in any shortage of suffocating warmth. Lennah’s behaviour gives Gawain the creeps, yet the knight _knows_ he is wholly to blame for this, thus voicing no dissent. He’s more concerned about her looking obviously unwell than any hypothetical cold shoulder he might be receiving. 

“That’s great relief.” - The mage addresses her patient, all the while busying her hands and gaze with menial care-taking arrangements. - “Then all there is left to your recovery process should be taking your supplements daily. I’ll drop by once in a while to help with physical therapy and some magical boosts…”

“Lennah.” - Courageously, he interrupts her. 

“Yes, mister Gawain?”

Gawain feels a sharp pang in his gut at her dry, unironic manner of address. 

“Come closer?” 

Lennah’s back stays turned but her hands still. He guesses that she’s pretending not to hear his request. If that’s the case, she’s doing a mighty poor job. The ominous, out of place silence is more indicative of “message received” than any deliberate response. 

“I want to see your face.” - He urges without urgency.

More silence. Gawain sees her shoulders raise slightly in the shadows as if Lennah is readying herself with a deep breath. Then she finally approaches him, ginger step by ginger step. Her smile looks even more plastic up close, flanked by sunken cheeks. 

“Anything I can help you with at this distance?” - She asks, trying hard to smooth out the wrinkles of tremor in her voice.

“If it’s not too much trouble, just… stay by me, as you did.” - Gawain replies, resisting the urge to bolt up and gather her into his arms before her half-turned body can enable her to sprint away.

To his relief, Lennah “okay”-s amidst a shaky sigh, then plops down in the same chair that Sara was occupying minutes ago. 

They marinate in silence some more until Gawain feels a peculiar tickling at his arm. Dragged into proximity, the lid over Lennah’s pressure cooker of volatile emotions have quietly blown off. 

“Lennah…?” - Gawain raises his voice, alarmed by the first flowered vines spun out of thin air beginning to snake around his arm. 

Lennah’s head is lowered. The cluster of spirit blossoms in front of her only continues to swell. It swallows Gawain’s entire arm in a heartbeat. This is off, the blooms are multiplying at a rate and density exponentially higher than usual.

“Lennah!” - He cries. Not that Gawain has ever been mobile since he woke up to begin with, but the flowers, now creeping over his torso, make him feel paralysed. - “Are you angry?” 

“I’m… not!” - She snaps. 

The raw reaction leaves Gawain awestruck. Not once did he ever manage to get her angry, no matter how hard he deliberately tried sometimes. Gawain reckons he must be of the extremely select few to experience Lennah’s wrath in her lifetime. But once his pointless wish has been granted, the knight has only the exact opposite of gratification for savouring. 

This feels like shit. Forcing the woman he loves into an unwanted emotional state that she is barely equipped with enough experience to process is shit. Gawain is hit by the tidal wave of guilt and shame that should have rightfully ground him to dust ages ago.

“Lennah, I’m sorry.” - Comes his first sincere apology to her. 

The mass of flowers stop short of reaching his neck. Then gently, almost lovingly, under their stilled breaths, they disintegrate back into their air from whence they came, one by one. Lennah’s head is still drooped, her clenching fingers bleached white at the second knuckles. Gawain almost wishes the monster claw had ended him on that battlefield.

“May I hold you?” - He asks while fully aware of the futility of asking.

The entirety of her petite frame begins to tremble, and something in his gut tells him she needs this. They both do. His arms scream with ache from shoulder to fingertips, but Gawain heeds not their protests. Lennah feels almost jagged in his embrace, like she’s made of all emaciated corners and puppeted by floral-scented magic. The moment she’s wrapped up, Lennah’s dam bursts completely. 

She was scared, terrified, angry at him, angry at herself. Too many nights she wished to have perished under those claws. Too many horridly reminiscent of the most bitter days of her childhood spent picking bark off her own skin until it bled. She never felt such pain of losing, not since she had already thought herself to have lost everything so many years ago. Why are her warnings, her _pleas_ so weightless to him? Why does _his_ life bear so much weight to her? Should she personally glue another set of armour to his thick, thick skin one of these days, o’ mister mighty beetle? 

Gawain feels himself shrink with each rightful accusation, grits his teeth as his throbbing chest bears the brunt of her angry (though admittedly flimsy) punches. It hardly matters if his pathetic apologies function as they should, Gawain just wants Lennah to know she is being heard, that every single one of her words weigh as a thousand suns to him right now. 

He’s ashamed. To have the gall to preach to her about the necessity of attachment, even conspiring to form such binding attachment between them only to inflict cruelty on her shortly after, what part of his actions does not scream hypocrisy? His hands trace soothing circles into her back with whatever limited movement they are allowed, desiring her comfort rather than intimacy. He’s unworthy of intimacy, falls tragically short of the honour to ask for her hand in marriage.

Lennah’s weeping subsides eventually and so does her tangent. Gawain continues to whisper apologies into her hair long after she’s stopped. He’s aching to see her face, but feels it impudent to pry her away, let alone force her chin up. Fortunately for him, Lennah takes it upon herself to initiate conversation.

“...That tickles, Gawain.” - Her voice is light as air once more, albeit still somewhat nasally and choked. - “And I got the message.”

Relief washes over him for the lack of honorifics. 

“Right…” 

“Apology accepted.” 

Gawain has to hold back laughter when she springs upright, meeting his eyes with her own puffy, bruised ones. Lennah looks like an overdressed panda but he doesn’t dare point out the fact. 

“Do you forgive everyone who has ever wronged you this quickly? Anticlimactic outbursts just a Lennah thing?”

“It is a Lennah thing.” - Lennah huffs, the smile she’s trying to suppress pulling her fake pout askew. - “And you’d better get used to it.”

“Heh? What kind of a threat is that?” - Gawain doesn’t even bother masking his grin anymore.

“My my, you assume the worst of me, mister Gawain!” - She gasps scandalously. - “That’s no threat, it’s…”

His eyes must be playing tricks on him. Nestled in her outstretched palm could not be a set of two silver rings, glinting orange under the lamplight with quiet elegance. 

“What…” 

“I’ve decided… to heed your advice to take root. I…” - Lennah fidgets with the rings as all of her bravado, desperation-fueled determination cultivated over two months seem to have inexplicably vanished. But there’s no going back now. Like Gawain said, they only have the one life each. - “...I hope you’ll allow my doing so with you.”

Gawain is dumbstruck. He expected every bit of the admonishing, but not that it would end in this manner. His own rings lay dormant in a dusty drawer back in his room, if Gawain’s memory is to be trusted. He never worked up the courage to bring them to Lennah again after that lecturing stunt months ago. 

“...You’re certain?” - Gawain points a wary finger at himself. 

Lennah giggles.

“I am. Only if you agree, of course…”

“After all the trouble I’ve caused you?”

“But so have I you.”

“Lennah…” - He grits his teeth, hands bracing her by the shoulders so not one ounce of his sincerity may stray from her sight. - “I don’t feel a man worthy of you, yet. I still have room to grow. There are still things I have to make up to you.”

Lennah is smiling again. A real smile this time, genuine in all of its anxiety, bliss and hope.

“You can do all of that by me. And I promise to grow along your side. To my understanding, people aren’t required to reach a pinnacle of growth before making this kind of commitment. Is that right?”

She’s right. She always is. The more righteousness falls from Lennah’s lips, the more humbled Gawain feels. He still doesn’t understand what she sees in him, what prompted a creature as benevolent as her to so willingly walk into his life bringing one as flawed, as undeserving as him ultimate happiness on a silver platter. He may never will, but that hardly matters. Lennah doesn’t expect him to. 

“So what do you say, Sir Gawain, the grumpiest, most stubborn, most valiant knight in all the skies?” 

He practically spits out laughter. Already, she has got him to learn to laugh at his own expense. Lennah is an excellent teacher indeed.

“Yes.” - He replies, taking one ring and sliding it up the ringfinger of her left hand.


End file.
